


you spoke a word and life began

by grumkin_snark



Series: Maekar x Dyanna [1]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Canon Compliant, F/M, Feelings Realization, Jealousy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-23
Updated: 2018-10-23
Packaged: 2019-08-06 08:49:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,986
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16384991
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/grumkin_snark/pseuds/grumkin_snark
Summary: In which the arrival of a dashing visitor — who immediately begins whiling away the hours with Dyanna — forces Maekar to confront his crippling insecurity and take a leap of faith.





	you spoke a word and life began

**Author's Note:**

> This was originally intended for the @asoiafrarepairs week, but I never got around to finishing it in time. The prompt was jealousy.
> 
> Also! You should check out [this artwork](http://naomimakesart.tumblr.com/post/179328265082/naomimakesart-commisison-for-samwpmarleau-of) of Maekar and Dyanna that I had commissioned!

He’s not felt like this before; the sensation is foreign, without name. He’s felt something like it, when Baelor would perfect a move faster than he ever could, or when Daemon would be praised for something Baelor had done first and better. That was longing, he’d come to term it. Longing for recognition, for justice.

But this is darker, insidious, consuming. He’s five-and-ten now, he’d grown out of his childhood quick temper that Mother had always said he inherited from her. Rather, he’d learned to control it. Yet now, it threatens to surge forth, he yearns to hit something.

Or some _one_.

Ser Michael’s family had come to visit a week ago, including his nephew who, as it happens, has more than a dash of his uncle’s refined gregariousness. And he’s a year older than Baelor, has been a knight for years where Maekar is not one, has helped himself to talking up anyone in the palace he so chooses.

Maekar thinks his artifice is obvious, underhanded, had thought surely Dyanna would see through it in a trice. Instead, every time he sees him talking to her with that  _arrogance_ , she seems ever more besotted. Sometimes he hears them discussing the status of the mountain agriculture or a mutual friend or some local tale, and Maekar knows none of what they speak.

He’s been to Dorne, of course he has, but the only place he’d spent any considerable time was in Sunspear to visit his aunt and uncle. Dyanna’s told him much of her home, and Ser Michael has as well, but Maekar had never  _lived_  it.

Training helps keep his mind off  _Gerris_ , so he puts all his concentration into swinging his mace and practicing his footwork. If he’s exhausted, then he can’t think, and if he can’t think, then he can’t dwell.

At least, it works until after one session in which he manages to best Baelor, when rather than engage in another bout just the two of them, he hears, “Prince Baelor, would you mind if I spell you for the next round?”

Gerris stands there with a blade in his hand and a sickeningly familiar silver bangle around his wrist. He catches Maekar staring at it and blithely comments, “You seem a formidable opponent, so I asked Lady Dyanna for her favor. She was generous enough to give it to me.”

“Some of us don’t need favors.” Gerris blinks in surprise, but doesn’t comment.

“By all means, ser,” Baelor interjects. “I’d best be off, besides. Good luck to you. ”

He casts Maekar a worried glance before heading back to the armory, the sort of glance that means he’ll be subject to an inquisition sometime later. Not that it would do any good. Maekar doesn’t know what explanation he could give. Not one he’s _prepared_ to give to his big brother, anyway.

He beats Gerris at sparring, in the end, though the part of Maekar that doesn’t trust anything wonders if Gerris hadn’t fought to the best of his ability, or if Maekar had beat him fair and square. He’s not sure he wants to find out. Regardless, he  _does_  win, and that’s something. Never mind that Gerris doesn’t appear particularly bothered by the outcome.

“Your Grace,” he says as he sheathes his sword in its scabbard, “I’ve been intending to ask—have I offended you in some way? I get the sense that I have. Whatever it is, I apologize.”

“You didn’t do anything, Ser Gerris,” says Maekar stiffly. “You are an apt swordsman, and I hardly know you.”

Unable to stomach the man’s concern and his  _bloody annoying_  face, Maekar mutters a goodbye and follows in Baelor’s footsteps. Right now, he’d like nothing more than to be alone and to get the image of Dyanna’s bracelet out of his mind.

* * *

The better part of another week passes without incident— _Gerris will be leaving King’s Landing soon_ , he reminds himself,  _just a little longer—_ but he should have expected that eventually it would come to a head.

He’s been successfully avoiding both Dyanna and Gerris, but apparently even after a decade of knowing her, he’d underestimated her tenacity. On his way through the halls to retire for the night, he hears purposeful footsteps behind him, and then her voice.

“I must speak with you,” she hisses, quietly enough to not disturb anyone, yet plenty loud enough for him to hear her irritation. Even though he’s fully aware that ignoring her is sure to only make things worse, he tries it anyway. He wills her to leave, to go take a stroll with Gerris or some such, but he gets all of three steps before Dyanna calls out again, “I must  _talk to you_.”

The last thing he wants is to risk a courtier or servant witnessing Dyanna’s wrath and his inevitable aggravation, so he changes course and exits the keep entirely, out into the pouring rain. He’s soaked in moments. If he’d thought Dyanna would rather stay dry, however, once again he is mistaken—she follows him outside with no care as to the weather.

“Stop walking away from me!  _Maekar!_ ”

He finally comes to a halt and turns around, against the wishes of every self-preservation instinct. But Baelor and Father always address and overcome their obstacles head-on, and so must he.

He will not run away; but he can’t bring himself to be wholly composed either. He contents himself with glowering and saying nothing. Dyanna’s face is twisted into a scowl when she catches up to him, her rain-drenched hair hanging in ropes, but there’s hurt there, too.

“Why are you so vexed with me?” she demands. She has to yell to be heard above the storm. “I’ve scarcely seen you of late, and when I have, you’ve been utterly disagreeable. What could I have done to wrong you so? What has changed?”

“I saw you enough.” His jaw clenches. “With...him.”

“Him?  _Gerris?_ ” Incredulity dawns in her expression. “Are you  _jealous_?”

_Jealousy? Is that what this is?_

He’d always thought of that as a baser emotion. Beneath him. Reserved for such people like Daemon who bristle at being outshone by a half-Dornish prince, or for possessive husbands who keep their wives under lock and key.

This  _can’t_  be jealousy, though. What could Gerris Manwoody claim that Maekar can’t? He’s a lordling, not a prince, and Maekar had bested him at sparring despite Gerris’s flaunted favor and knightly title. Just because Gerris is more confident and affable and unmarred by pox scars and—

“I’m not jealous,” he insists. “What would I have to be jealous about?”

“You tell me!” Dyanna shouts. “Gerris is a  _friend_ , that’s all. Even if he weren’t, what would it matter to you?”

He grits his teeth. “It wouldn’t. I’ve no qualm with Gerris. He’s just—he’s not—”

“You?” Dyanna’s voice has grown small. “He’s not  _you_ , you mean.”

He’s seen this look in her eyes before—she’s searching for a specific answer. Every excuse, every explanation, every objection vanishes all at once, leaving him with only panic. He doesn’t know how to do this, whatever  _this_  is. Baelor’s always been the one with the easy charm; Aerys’s cleverness is the envy of many; and Rhaegel is sweet, unassuming, gentle; Father, not known for his silver tongue, can make Mother laugh at a moment’s notice.

Maekar is none of those things. He never has been. He’s... _less_.

Dyanna stays doggedly silent, refusing to take the lead like she is so wont to do. He wants to say something,  _anything_ , even if it’s not the right thing (it’s never the right thing), but he has none of Aerys’s poetry.

Finally, she gives up. “Very well, then. By your leave, Prince Maekar.”

The prospect of confessing that which he’s denied for so long is paralyzing. Yet it is unthinkable to let her leave, to further open the door for her to find someone else. Gerris may be only a friend, but Dyanna is a woman grown, growing ever more beautiful by the day, and bears the name of one of the realm’s oldest houses. In short order, men near and far would seek her out, he’s certain of it.

His hand darts out to grab hers before she can step out of reach. “Anna,  _wait_.”

She looks up at him with her blazing violet eyes rendered almost as black as the night sky above them. Except, still the words remain unspoken; his action was on impulse, not thought. He knows what he wants to say, what he wants to  _do_ , but for the life of him, he cannot take the leap.

Dyanna waits a few more expectant beats, then shakes her head in exasperation. “You are  _impossible_.”

With that as her only warning, she clenches both hands in his doublet, leans up, and kisses him full on the mouth. He’s so astounded he can’t react at all. When she pulls away, his voice comes out strangled.

“What— _why_?”

“Why does anyone kiss someone else?” she counters. “I like you, Maekar. More than like, to tell it true. I thought I’d seen glimpses of the same from you, but you’ve never said anything.”

“But  _why_?” he asks again. “Why  _me_? Why not Baelor or Gerris or...or anyone?”

She scrunches up her nose. “Baelor’s like a brother to me,” she says, “and Gerris...I’ve  _told_ you.”

She huffs in frustration, takes his hand, and places it on the side of her neck, just under her jaw. Her heartbeat races beneath his fingertips, as if she’d run a league. Of course, she hadn’t; she’s simply been standing here.

“I know what I feel,” she continues, “and maybe you feel the same. But I can’t do this alone. I won’t. Not if you refuse to leave your brother’s shadow and think so very little of yourself.”

 _I like you, Maekar_ , she’d said.  _More than like._

It’s inconceivable to him, still, even after her proclamation and actions. That someone could want him— _him_ , instead of one of the many more desirable men in the realm—let alone someone as stunning and dynamic as the Sword of the Morning’s niece. It’s—inconceivable.

Yet here she is, offering him that which he’s dreamt but never once expected.

He nods, his heart racing as fast as hers. Slowly, he slides his hand from her neck into her hair, and settles the other on her waist.

_I like you, Maekar. More than like._

He doesn’t know a whit of what he’s doing, not at all, but he bends down and kisses her anyway, each of them soaked to the bone and in plain view of anyone who would chance to glance out a window. Somehow, none of it matters. Not his inexperience or the storm or anything. None of it. She pulls him closer, as though it is she and not him who had longed for this the most.

It is strange to him; not simply that she’s kissing him at all, but the kiss itself. Mother and Father both had said theirs was awkward and unpleasant, for neither of them had had a say in their betrothal, one on which the entire realm depended. It had taken them years to learn each other.

And while Lady Jena is winsome and she and Baelor seem quite fond of each other, ultimately neither had had a choice in their marriage either. Aerys and Rhaegel, they too are betrothed, though not yet joined, to ladies who were chosen for them.

But Maekar, no one had set a betrothal for him. A fourth son is of no import, will stand to inherit nothing of value. There is no noble lady whom he does not know waiting to wed him, there is no alliance he must oblige. He is free from that sort of duty, free to find  _love_ , even in these direst of times.

And gods, has he found it.


End file.
